these thoughts percolate, a fresh pot of some homebrew, blonde roast sitting, steaming in a chipped cup that’s seen better days. better days before its handle needed mending, before clotted adhesive molted out of the base, glossed over with a poor attempt of camouflage.

I’ve never ridden a bike in my life. And the amount of miles I’ve driven a car is equal to or less than the number of years I’ve lived on this planet. Motion on wheels doesn’t make sense to me. Even riding shotgun or in the backseat of a car is enough to make me nervous. The number of sexual partners I’ve had can be counted on one hand with a finger to spare. It would have been two, but I am human and, therefore, am prone to make mistakes. My idea of a perfect date is staying at home with a good book and some distance between us. It’s not that I’m not interested in you. It’s not that I don’t want to know…